


crowned passerine

by ripplingtale



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Prior to 000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 04:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18275921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ripplingtale/pseuds/ripplingtale
Summary: Perhaps, it was not a sin for an angel to craving for freedom.





	crowned passerine

**Author's Note:**

> Grandblue Fantasy belongs to Cygames, and I, as a writer, didn't take any material profits from the content here. Another character study that written before 000 with only Paradise Lost knowledge in my disposal.

Sandalphon placed his cup of coffee; the clink it made pushed his annoyance even further than he thought it would. Eyes narrowed, he met Gran’s gaze straight on; trying to show how the captain’s blatant stare pricked invisible needles on his face, on his neck, on his skin.

He knew Gran would speak not if not prompted. Lyria or Vryn always did the talking for him. However, the girl in blue was nowhere by his side since morning, dragged by Io and Rosetta to the marketplace along with the little red dragon and basically almost all of the crews—it had been a while since they landed in a big port, after all, filled to the brim with promises and entertainments.

The supreme primarch stabbed upon the silence. “What?”

Gran simply smiled. He drummed his fingertips around his cup, the warmth dusting his skin with red, with pink, with the color of sunset. He took a deep breath. “Can you unfurl your wings for me?” the captain asked in such way he knew Sandalphon would refuse without a second thought.

And he was right; Sandalphon almost, _almost_ refused.

Denial tipped on the top of his tongue, stopped right before stumbling down. Creases formed on Sandalphon’s forehead, stitching his eyebrows in displeasure. His frown deepened just a fraction as he watched Gran breathed. Questions swarmed between his eyes. Sandalphon was lucky Gran wasn’t talented enough to answer a noiseless query just like Shao or Lancelot was.

Gran was lucky he was Gran—the captain, the singularity, the heaven’s most blessed, the one who held Lucifer’s and the four archangels’ favors, because should he be anybody else, should he be none of the above, Sandalphon would refuse instead of ask, “What for?”

Delight crossed Gran’s eyes. His grasp on his cup tightened a little, full of anticipation. The young captain swung his legs in the same manner of Lyria’s when Katalina let her sat on high grounds. Sandalphon didn’t know whose tendency rubbed on whom, and frankly, he wondered why he cared. “Hm-mm, let’s see,” Gran hummed, his grin was bright and a little shameless. “For science?”

The angel rolled his eyes, sipping his lukewarm coffee. “You’re not even a scientist.”

And that much was true, Gran had his own connection with what Sandalphon perceived as scientists—no, not Lucilius-kind of scientists, not Cagliostro-kind of people either, but the normal kind, if the entire Society could be said as the most normal scientist in the entire skies—but Sandalphon didn’t think Gran was smart enough to be one, academic-wise.

He didn’t even know whether Gran enrolled in an academy, for one. How old was he, again? Now that Sandalphon thought about it, he remembered Vane rambled about how young Gran was before the third cataclysm, but the supreme primarch failed to listen; too busy to care, too deep in Lucifer’s wishes and his desire to tear Belial’s wings one by one, feathers by feathers.

Gran tapped his own temple with a finger, his voice proud. “I can do bits of alchemy.”

Sandalphon rolled his eyes again. “The differences are erunes and foxes.” He raised his cup to take another sip. His coffee was colder than his unconsciousness thought it would be; the familiar bitterness swelled around his tongue, caressing his mouth. Sandalphon cleared his throat, not even bothered to filter his words as he continued, “Also, you can only do the most basic.”

At that, chuckles bursted from Gran’s lips.

Who needed to study alchemy when you have talented alchemists onboard your flying ship?

Sandalphon knew the captain’s request still hang around the borders of silence, waiting for its turn to be answered. It was a peculiar want, even from Gran; he was one of the few people who had seen Sandalphon’s wings many times in the frontline, in the battle, around the edge of Grandcypher—all six of them, unfurled as he softly hummed the end of time.

Sighing, the supreme primarch complied. “Fine.”

Gran’s eyes promptly brightened upon the unexpected answer; golden light, silver glimmer, just like the passing dawn. Sandalphon heaved a deep breath before letting his wings shimmered around the empty space, winding between the air, threading existence. He made sure to tuck it tight behind his back as to not knock over things on the counter and cupboards, brows furrowing when dull aches seeped through his bones. Wings weren’t made to be unfurled in narrow spaces.

However, Gran leaned across the table, hand outstretched. “Can I?”

The supreme primarch blinked. A fond, faded memory flashed on his mind. He remembered when he was still so young and small, hands reaching upon his own wings, wondering how the feathers felt on his skin, whether it was velvet or leather, whether it was soft or rough. Lucifer let him touched his wings once, the same three pairs that were now tucked behind Sandalphon’s back.

Lucifer’s wings were the perfect stereotype of an angel’s wings.

“Go ahead. Don’t pull on it.”

Sandalphon quietly pushed his wings forward, slowly unfurling it as to close the distance, watching Gran’s fingertips grazed the feathers, gliding close to the end. His grasp was loose, as if he was holding something so precious, so treasured even by himself. Gran’s gaze was wistful, gentle, the same gaze he held for the stars. He looked at the wings in such way Sandalphon felt his stare more than his touch; caressing the feathers, touching the bent of its spines.

(He did, indeed.)

Gran shook his head, his smile remained. “As I thought, I really like your original wings more.”

The primarch blinked. His thought immediately lurched to his own pair of wings, the ones that contrasted against his current ones; the brown, the black, the dark. Creases formed on his forehead again as he wondered how, pondered why, questioning whether Gran actually wasn’t right in the head, for the last time Sandalphon showed his original wings was when he tried to kill a fallen.

Gran, sensing the unpleasant ideas from how sharp Sandalphon’s stare was, quickly corrected himself, trying to save his dignity, “Don’t get me wrong.” His words were stacked on each other, too fast to be understood, but Sandalphon still caught every syllables, crystalline. “I’m thankful you have Lucifer’s power and all, but somehow, white doesn’t really suit you.”

The words didn’t strike as hard as it should.

Rather, Sandalphon always thought he looked odd with white. Unlike Lucifer, whose entire existence swathed in white, or even Lucilius, whose robes were so monotone to the point even ink stains would look better, Sandalphon never favored white—even Belial was, at some point, bathed in light of his adjudant uniform. So did the four archangels.

Sandalphon color wasn’t exactly black, he was more to brown; his hair, his armors, his shoes, his skin. Hence why white didn’t suit him. Not to mention his irises were the same shades of fire, of blood, of dripping color across the sky as sun fell from its throne. His three pairs of wings stuck on the boundary of his color scheme—peculiarly eye-catching, as if he wasn’t a proper heir of the supreme primarch, as if he wasn’t the one who supposed to receive Lucifer’s blessings.

Gran was lucky he was Gran—the captain, the singularity, the heaven’s most blessed, the one who held Lucifer and the four archangels’ favors, because should he be anybody else, should he be none of the above, Sandalphon wouldn’t want to listen to the reasons why he liked Sandalphon’s brown wings.

The young captain pushed himself back, his grasp was back around his cup. The coffee was long cold, the color and taste wound deep on the bottom of the drink. “It’s just like a sparrow’s,” he started, not knowing how much Sandalphon wanted to spat nonsense right at that second.

Sure, it was brown.

Gran grinned, tapping his fingertips around the edge of the rim in such way like he was trying to build the suspense of the continuation. Sandalphon frowned impatiently, eyes narrowed, ready to strung his mind and his displeasure to be compared to a bird, a mere passerine.

“I love sparrows.”

Sandalphon paused; his white wings faded from the sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading through the end.
> 
> Honestly, I almost forgot about this piece, since I was juggling another work with this. Thank you very much for reading my past San/Gran and giving kudos as well as comments, it's keep me going knowing people actually read this ship. I hope I can write another, with actual fluff instead of dash of angst.
> 
> As always, Frey have my gratitude for proofreading this work.
> 
> Thank you for reading, may all of you roll your favorite in these last days of gachapin.  
> \- Az.


End file.
